


5 Times Jesse McCree Sorta Minds his Own Business + 1 Time He Can’t Help Himself

by notyourdarling



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Additional Tags to Be Added, Alpha Fareeha "Pharah" Amari, Alpha Jesse McCree, Alpha Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Alpha Reinhardt Wilhelm, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Assumptions, Background Relationships, Badass Men in Love, Beta Ana Amari, Beta Lena "Tracer" Oxton, Beta Torbjörn Lindholm, Blackwatch Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Fall of Overwatch, Families of Choice, M/M, Omega Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Omega Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9515576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourdarling/pseuds/notyourdarling
Summary: A/B/O, golden-era fic where everyone assumes Jack and Gabriel are both alphas in some sort of casual fight-and-fuck relationship. Everyone assumes they're together because it's a convenient way for the two most dominant alphas to relieve some tension without ripping each other's throats out. They’re not entirely wrong—thereisa lot of fighting and fucking involved, but it’s definitely not casual and Jack is actually an omega. Oops.This is a small glimpse of all that from the perspective of freshly-recruited Jesse McCree.





	1. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this for Day 6 of Reaper76 Week, "In Another Life," and am continuing it since I was asked so nicely. Also because I'm a sucker for nosy cowboys and badass men in love.
> 
> Please hover over the text for Spanish translations or refer to the end notes.

“What’ll it be, _cabrón_?”

Jesse bares his bloodstained teeth at the impassive man before him. Agony consumes him. Every wheezing breath he takes feels like a white-hot, jagged knife slamming into his cracked ribs. His left arm hangs limply at his side, his numb, uncooperative fingers dangling excruciatingly close to Peacekeeper’s holster. His hands are trembling hard enough that Jesse wouldn’t be able to shoot straight if he tried—if he weren’t already out of bullets.

His shoulder protrudes unnaturally beneath his hovercycle jacket, dislocated during his desperate tumble down the ravine. He’d lost his hat somewhere along the way. The rest of his body throbs dully, muscles burning and flesh bruised from having brutally lost the ensuing fistfight. Covered in dust and blood, Jesse kneels in the warm desert sand, panting shallowly and snarling like an animal.

Some of the blood is his, but most of it had spattered onto him as Reyes’ men gunned down the last of the Deadlock Gang. He’d recognized the commander immediately—posters bearing his face plaster the walls of just about every diner along Route 66, propaganda left over from the Omnic Crisis that’s tattered and faded but still perfectly recognizable. The man’s got a few more scars now, and a certain darkness lingers in his eyes, but he still stands like a hero.

Jesse wishes he’d act like one, too. Reyes had singlehandedly beaten Jesse into the dirt in less than five minutes. The thought is more than a little bit humiliating. Jesse’s never been well-suited to close combat, but the ease with which Reyes subdued him had been pathetic. The man had lashed out with startling strength and grace, targeting Jesse’s weaknesses with lethal, remorseless precision. Jesse had given up on fighting defensively the instant he realized he was sorely outmatched and unable to read Reyes’ attacks. He’d resigned himself to imminent pain and had instead dedicated himself to making Reyes work for it.

It stings that Jesse hadn’t been able to achieve even that in the end. “ _Pendejo_ ,” he spits back viciously, glaring up at Reyes.

The other man raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him, crossing his arms over his armored chest. Jesse feels a spark of satisfaction that Reyes had at least scraped his knuckles raw against Jesse’s leather jacket. “That the best you got?”

Reyes moves like a predator, resting languidly against the canyon wall as he gazes down at Jesse’s crumpled body with sharp, vigilant eyes. His dog tags glint in the piercing sunlight, having slipped out during their scuffle. Jesse squints at them, eagerly seeking any possible advantage despite knowing that it’s foolish to hope for one in a few lines of engraved text. ‘ _A’_ and ‘ _JACK’_ are all he manages to read before Reyes scoffs and tucks his tags away beneath his chest plate.

Jack Reyes? Really? Jesse is almost disappointed by how ordinary his name sounds. Nothing else about Reyes is ordinary, even with the military-grade suppressant implants blocking his alpha pheromones. It’s disconcerting that Reyes emits no scent, but Jesse is quietly thankful for it. It’s difficult enough to deal with his own biology screaming at him for losing to a fellow alpha without said alpha’s scent smothering him, demanding submission.

Reyes’ presence is already more intimidating than his poster suggests, much to Jesse’s surprise. Propaganda is usually a gross exaggeration—the handsome golden-haired, blue-eyed man who shares the poster with Reyes is the very caricature of an American soldier—so Jesse had been expecting Reyes to be smaller, weaker. Definitely less condescending. “Look, kid,” Reyes starts, and Jesse bristles at once.

“I’m no kid,” he slurs through his swollen jaw, spitting a mouthful of blood at Reyes’ feet.

Reyes smirks and begins again. “Alright, _gamberro_. Like I said, second chances don’t come around often. This one’s pretty simple. Die here with your _compadres_ , or join Blackwatch. Your choice.” He pauses suddenly and tilts his head. He’s listening to his comm, Jesse realizes, tensing. It can’t be good news, judging by Reyes’ deepening scowl. He _tsks_ and turns back to Jesse, uncrossing his arms and stepping closer. “You’ve got about three minutes before my men figure out how to get down here. Then it’s a bullet in your skull unless I say otherwise. Think about it.”

“I’m just supposed to trust you?” Jesse asks, stalling as he glances around, looking for a way out. There isn’t one. Diving off the edge of a shallow cliff had been a stupid idea—but Jesse had run out of good ones, and he was hoping that the steep thirty-foot drop would slow Reyes. It hadn’t. Now Jesse’s stuck in a narrow dead-end gorge only a few strides away from one of the world’s deadliest men, in no condition to run, let alone _escape_.

Reyes shrugs. “You’re more use to me alive than dead, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t,” Jesse grits out through clenched teeth. Choice? Jesse sneers. There is no choice. At a loss, he snaps, “How’m I supposed to trust the word of a man who won’t even give me his name?”

Reyes blinks, momentarily taken aback before a glimmer of something halfway between respect and amusement settles in his eyes. “It’s Reyes,” he offers. “Gabriel Reyes.”

Gabriel? It suits him. But his tags had said—Jesse cuts himself off. He’s got more important things to worry about. “You don’t strike me as a Jack, anyway,” Jesse mutters under his breath, before sighing as heavily as his battered ribs can manage. “Fine,” he grumbles.

“Fine what?”

Jesse’s lips curl back into a grimace as he replies with increasing vehemence. “You’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t ya? Want me to bare my throat too? Kick a man when he’s down, why don’tcha.” The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth, and he squeezes his good hand into a tight fist, wishing he had some strength left. Jesse may not like to admit it, but he knows when to quit. He growls lowly but still submits. “I’ll join you. I’ll join Blackwatch.”

Gabriel grins down at him, pleased. “Welcome to Blackwatch, McCree.”

Jesse wants to punch him in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRANSLATIONS**
> 
> Hover translations should be working, but just in case… _Cabrón_ is a Spanish insult which has a lot of meanings, but in this context it’s “bastard.” _Pendejo_ is “asshole.” _Gamberro_ is “punk” and _compadres_ is “comrades.” Let me know if I’ve missed something! I don't speak Spanish, but I've done my best.
> 
>  ---
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, please know that any comments or critique you take the time to leave are greatly appreciated. Visit my tumblr (elynias.tumblr.com) for updates and drabbles, or just stop by to say hello.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, part two! Thanks for all of your support and patience! I'm posting this right away 'cus I got excited, so please let me know if you catch any mistakes. Your critiques are more than welcome.
> 
> Many thanks to dae, who pointed out that my timeline doesn't quite match up with what we know from canon! Whoops. 
> 
> For the sake of this fic, Jesse is a bit older. He joins up with the Deadlock Gang at 14 (after being on his own for a while) and gets pulled into Blackwatch at 20. I've made some of the original Overwatch team a bit younger as well. Gabe is 33, Jack is 32, and Ana is 36. I'll update the notes as more characters are introduced.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Jesse flinches in surprise. He twists, spurs jingling, his fingers wrapped tight around the grip of his revolver long before he remembers it’s useless. The woman standing at his shoulder merely raises an eyebrow. “Best put some bullets in that gun if you’re planning on shooting me,” she chides him lightly, unfazed by the barrel pressed into the curve of her jaw.

Jesse flushes red, stammering an apology as he holsters Peacekeeper. “Old habits die hard, ma’am.”

She shrugs, smiling enigmatically. “No harm done.” Her sharp eyes assess him in a single, quick motion before she wordlessly gestures for him to sit. Jesse complies, awkwardly shuffling onto one of the low metal benches bordering the training grounds. He’s distracted by the dark, elegant swirls of ink below the woman’s left eye. Jesse wonders what her tattoo means—wonders if it had hurt—but figures it might be rude to ask.

“Still, you have my apologies, ma’am,” he insists with the faintest of winces, hoping like hell that she won’t report him. He’d fought Reyes tooth and claw to keep his gun. The antique had belonged to his _abuela_ , who’d taught him how to shoot the caps off glass bottles on one memorable, sweltering summer afternoon. Peacekeeper is the last bit of home he’s got, and he’s kept her close over the years. She’s saved his hide countless times, and he polishes her up real pretty every night as thanks.

Reyes had allowed Jesse to keep his revolver on one condition—she had to remain unloaded. Jesse had resented the restriction, but it’s difficult to maintain his righteous indignation now that he’s gone and proved the man right. ‘Dangerous and unstable,’ indeed. As sensible as it is, Reyes’ lack of trust in him still smarts.

“Ana.”

Startled out of his thoughts, Jesse blurts, “What?”

“I am Ana, not ma’am. You’re new here.” It isn’t a question. Jesse sticks out like a sore thumb. The covert base is full of neatly-dressed recruits, most of them clad in dark gray uniforms, rushing back and forth with their chins held high. Jesse slinks around with his tattered red bandana fastened across his throat like a dare, glaring out from beneath the brim of his hat.

The lack of scents puts him on edge. Jesse’s always had a keen sense of smell, and it seems he’s come to rely on it more than he should. He struggles to properly identify the class of his fellow soldiers, and the uncertainty disquiets him and leaves his trigger finger twitchier than usual. It doesn’t help that his own scent is subdued now, gradually fading as his new implant takes effect.

Jesse’s too used to the overwhelming presence of a dozen or so other alphas, the constant onslaught of pheromones openly proclaiming bloodlust or frustration or pleasure or mirth. The Deadlock Gang had been almost exclusively comprised of alphas, and he’d always known what to expect from them, whether he liked it or not.

It’s a different story at the Watchpoint. Jesse’s been on base for six whole days. His Blackwatch uniform sits untouched in his bleak personal quarters, slung haphazardly across his wobbly wooden chair in a drab pile of black and gray fabric and metal. Jesse stubbornly clings to the filthy clothes he’d arrived in—his bedraggled hovercycle jacket and ripped-up jeans—loath to lose the last bit of his old scent. He never thought he’d miss the faint, acrid tang of gunpowder and blood chasing after him, smothered by the windswept desert sky, but he does.

Sitting here, patiently awaiting a chastising in an undisclosed location—“Classified,” Reyes had snapped the moment Jesse’d worked up the courage to ask—makes Jesse long for the desert. It’s too gray on the mountainside. The air’s too thin and the storms are too loud. Sounds reverberate between the military complexes sprawled across the lush valley far below, echoing and building until the slightest rumble of thunder is deafening. There’s nothing but mountains for miles. Jesse feels trapped, and he misses the blistering heat of the red sun on his skin.

“What gave it away?” Jesse teases with a charming smile, reaching up to smooth his fingers over the brim of his hat. His heart’s not in it, but he’ll keep talking nevertheless. It’s the polite thing to do. His mother had raised him right—well, as right as she could, given that he’d taken off at the tender age of fourteen and refused to look back.  

“The look in your eyes,” Ana replies shrewdly. “The poorly-concealed panic.”

Jesse certainly hadn’t expected that. He blinks at her dumbly. “That obvious?” He tries to chuckle, but it ends up a little choked.

“To me.” She taps the tiny golden insignia pinned to the front of her beret—the eagle marking her as a sniper, and a damn good one at that. She’s the head of her division, Jesse realizes, finally noticing that the overcoat draped over her arm is a regal shade of blue. Jesse cringes internally. He’d almost shot an officer.

“Enough of that,” she snaps, and Jesse immediately straightens, standing at attention before he even realizes why. There’d been an undertone of _Command_ in Ana’s voice, and he’d obeyed instinctively. “Rest assured that you pose no threat to me, armed or not.”

Jesse’s mouth is open and yammering before he has a chance to reconsider. “Now just _wait a minute_ —”

“I’m only trying to spare you a bit of pain.” Ana shrugs nonchalantly, her expression perfectly serene except for her eyes, which glint mischievously and crinkle at the corners. It hits Jesse then that she’s as beautiful as she is terrifying. That not-quite-smile is enough to tell him that Ana probably knows a hundred or so different ways to knock his teeth out.

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Jesse asks, scowling. Teeth are overrated, and Jesse’s not one to take an insult lying down.

“Gabriel is on the verge of a rut,” Ana declares, seemingly out of nowhere. “Don’t let him catch you staring at Jack.”

Jesse is blindsided by the sudden shift in their conversation. ‘Gabriel’…? Oh, right. Reyes. Then ‘Jack’ would be… Strike-Commander Morrison? But why would Reyes care about another alpha staring at…

Understanding strikes Jesse like a hypertrain and he sputters, “What? Aren’t they both alphas?”

Ana raises a disdainful eyebrow at him.

Jesse backtracks. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, y’know, it’s jus’ kinda unusual? I mean, I ain’t really seen it before but I ain’t got a problem with it. S’none of my business. I’m just… is that… okay? For them both to be… Doesn’t it get a little, uh… violent?”

He jerks his head towards the center of the arena, where Reyes and Morrison are sparring. The two men have been at it for a while now, and the spectacle has drawn a crowd—Jesse included, since he’d been watching from a distance, fascinated, before Ana had interrupted him. Both men are breathing harshly, their bare, scarred shoulders gleaming with sweat. They’re constantly shifting, rushing in or nimbly dodging away, occasionally lashing out with a sharp jab or kick to test the other’s defenses.

Jesse knows from his own regrettable personal experience just how competent Reyes is in a fight. His bones still ache from the jarring force of the other alpha’s blows, and the bruises dotted across his skin in painful constellations have only begun fading to a mottled greenish-purple color. He grimaces in sympathy as the dull sound of fists striking flesh fills the air.

Ironically, Reyes’ vicious strength is the least dangerous thing about him. He’s clever and quick, easygoing right up until he _isn’t_ , at which point he’s undeniably the Commander of Blackwatch. There’s something charismatic about Reyes—maybe it’s the look in his eyes or the scars on his face or the way he never hesitates—something so authoritative that Jesse typically jumps to obey the man’s commands without a second thought. It’s infuriating. But against all odds, Reyes and Morrison appear evenly matched.

Stripped down to identical black tank tops and standard-issue fatigue pants, the two men snarl audibly as they circle one another. Morrison is faster, Jesse realizes. He watches the blond evade a sweeping roundhouse kick before ducking in close to land a swift left hook that draws blood. Reyes seems strangely pleased by his split lip. He grins as he roughly scrubs the back of his hand across his chin, smearing blood everywhere.

Reyes bares his teeth in a bloody smirk and lunges forward. He feints a punch and slams his knee into Morrison’s solar plexus instead. Morrison goes down with a desperate wheeze, hastily crossing his arms over his face to block Reyes’ next hit. The force of the strike knocks Morrison’s arms straight into his forehead, and he growls deep within his chest. A blow like that would’ve probably knocked Jesse out, but Morrison just looks annoyed. He uses his momentum to disengage, deftly rolling backwards out of range and springing to his feet.

Reyes doesn’t give him the chance to recover. He tackles Morrison. The two hit the mats in a blur, grappling furiously, each pressing for an advantage. Reyes comes out on top, pinning Morrison with his full bodyweight. He straddles Morrison’s chest and presses in close to slam Morrison’s wrists to the floor uncomfortably far above his head, forcing Morrison to arch his back or risk dislocating both shoulders. Morrison stiffens for a moment before scowling and thrashing ineffectively beneath Reyes.

Reyes looks smug for all of five seconds before Morrison contorts his lower body in an unexpected display of flexibility. He manages to get his legs wrapped around Reyes’ torso, locking his ankles together. Morrison narrows his eyes and smirks vindictively as he reverses their position with a sudden snap of his hips. Reyes lets out a startled growl which cuts off abruptly when Morrison smashes him into the mat, crushing the air out of his lungs with a well-placed shot to the ribs.

Morrison doesn’t make the same mistake as Reyes. He positions himself lower on Reyes’ body, straddling Reyes’ hips and immobilizing his arms with a complicated hold involving both his hands and knees. Triumphant, Morrison grins down at Reyes.

Reyes doesn’t look too upset. With a forceful, full-body jerk, he frees one hand from Morrison’s hold. The other man tenses in anticipation, but Reyes… Reyes reaches out and grabs a handful of Morrison’s ass. Morrison chokes. He flushes bright red high across his cheekbones, and the color soon spreads, engulfing his exposed shoulders. Reyes capitalizes on Morrison’s obvious distraction, yanking his remaining hand out from under Morrison’s knee.

Morrison lurches, caught off guard, but Reyes catches him with his second hand. He steadies Morrison with a palm on his chest, which he immediately slides up towards his throat. The movement is leisurely, Reyes dragging his hand slow enough that it catches on the ribbed fabric of Morrison’s tank top, hitching it up slightly to reveal a flash of Morrison’s ivory hipbones.

Morrison slaps Reyes’ wandering hand away just as it reaches the hollow of his throat. He leans closer to Reyes, bending forward to snarl something inaudible, flashing his teeth—but he doesn’t protest as Reyes’ displaced hand settles at his waist. Morrison shivers as Reyes’ fingers slip beneath his tank top, gliding across his flushed skin. Reyes’ answering smile is filthy. His dark, hungry gaze is discernible from afar even if the words he murmurs aren’t.

Morrison ducks his head shyly and laughs, warm and soft, a rich sound that carries all the way over to Jesse and Ana. Jesse whistles lowly. Looks like Reyes’ rut has already begun. The last few onlookers depart in a hurry, and Jesse idly wonders if any of them feel as awkward as he does right now.

“I fail to see how that is any of your concern. And you’d best not stare.” Ana’s voice startles Jesse again, but he heeds her advice and quickly averts his eyes from the scene unfolding before them. “I’ve heard things about you,” she says cryptically.

“Only good things, I hope,” Jesse jokes, knowing this must be untrue.

“The best,” Ana assures him kindly. “Deadeye, they call you, hmm?”

Jesse wrinkles his nose and ducks his head. The name is reminder of everything he’s lost, and for a moment, he’s paralyzed, struck down by a grief more profound than expected. He hadn’t been especially close to anyone in the Deadlock Gang—they’d all been volatile, twice-bitten, hesitant to trust and be trusted, which had only afforded an uneasy sense of camaraderie. They’d all been motivated by money rather than any unifying, noble cause, anyway. But it’s hard to spend six years in a place without coming to think of it as home.

Aware that he’s let the silence drag on too long, Jesse forces himself to speak. “Don’t really go by that ‘round these parts. The name’s McCree, now.”

“McCree,” Ana repeats, her tone thoughtful. She tilts her head slightly before nodding once, firmly. “Yes, I’ve heard things about you. Come.”

She turns to leave without another word. Torn, Jesse glances in Reyes’ direction—should he follow Ana? Is that even _allowed_? He catches sight of Morrison and Reyes, still tangled up in each other. Reyes is sitting up now, propping himself up with one hand while the other rests at the nape of Morrison’s neck, squeezing lightly, keeping him close. Morrison is still in his lap, smiling. Morrison reaches up to gently run his thumb over Reyes’ split lip, smiling wider and murmuring something quiet before he leans in to kiss Reyes sweetly.

That’s enough of an answer for Jesse. He rushes to fall in step with Ana, who hasn’t so much as paused to see if he would. “Come where?” he asks.

“The shooting range,” Ana replies with a faint smirk. “Someone has to show you how it’s done. And you must be tired of carrying that tiny pistol around. We’ll get you something more suitable. Something a little less twentieth century, I should think.”

Jesse actually gasps. “ _Tiny pistol!?_ ”

He’s never been so insulted in his life. Ana, wholly unaffected by his dramatics, hums noncommittally before glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. She sighs. “Very well. If you’re so attached, the least I can do is find you some proper ammunition. .357 caliber?”

“Yeah, she’s a .357,” Jesse confirms, patting Peacekeeper’s holster fondly. _Tiny pistol_ , his ass.

Ana nods decisively, quickening her pace. “Yes, I know precisely what you need. Something experimental—a bit flashy, but it should do nicely.”

Jesse’s eagerness abruptly gives way to a twinge of guilt as he remembers that Reyes has explicitly forbidden him from seeking out bullets to replace the ones he’d confiscated. Jesse frowns and admits, “But Reyes said I’m not s’pposed to have—”

Ana stops dead and gives him an unimpressed look. “And will _you_ be telling Reyes?”

Jesse shuts his mouth and follows her into the shooting range, grinning like a fool.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRANSLATIONS**
> 
> _Abuela_ is "grandmother."
> 
> \---
> 
> Readers with eagle eyes may spot the "Beta Ana Amari" tag and wonder why she's able to use the Command voice. In my verse, there are two types of voices, Command (associated with alphas) and Persuasion (associated with omegas). It's a common misconception that only alphas or omegas are able to use these voices. They're genetically predisposed, yes, but the voices can be learned with enough practice and dedication. Jack is actually the one who taught Ana how to use the Command voice, thereby unleashing terror on the world. ;)
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, please know that any comments or critique you take the time to leave are greatly appreciated. Visit my tumblr (elynias.tumblr.com) for updates and drabbles, or just stop by to say hello.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Valentine’s Day! Thanks so much for your patience and support—I love and appreciate all of your comments, kudos, likes, and reblogs. :)
> 
> For those who are curious: Fareeha is still 12, Reinhardt is 37, Torbjörn is still 37, Lena is 24 (goodbye canon timeline), and Angela is 21. Lena and Angela have joined Overwatch far ahead of schedule. Feel free to ask me any questions you may have about my timeline and the way things fit together! 
> 
> This chapter takes place five months down the line from the last one. I hope it gives you _feelings_.

Fareeha looks up at him with determination in her dark eyes, frowning deeply and clutching her playing cards tight enough to wrinkle. She’s about to cheat. Jesse sighs. He’s been trying to teach her how to properly cheat at cards for the past two months, but hasn’t had much luck yet.

It’s not because Fareeha is a lousy student. No, she’s very serious for a twelve-year-old. She watches attentively and nods at all the right moments during Jesse’s demonstrations and dutifully practices her sleights of hand. Reinhardt had been absolutely delighted by the “magic trick” she’d shown him the other day at breakfast. But despite the valiant effort she puts forth, Fareeha is still terrible at cheating—too much her mother’s daughter, perhaps. She’s hopelessly honest.

Fareeha assesses her dwindling pile of nuts and raisins, nibbling her lip thoughtfully. Ana had tolerated their antics but had put her foot down at actual gambling, so they’re stuck using the ancient trail mix that’s been in the shared kitchenette for longer than Jesse’s been alive. Poker isn’t much fun without anything important on the line, but Jesse’d rather play with trail mix than take a sleep dart to the ass again. That’s one unpleasant experience he’s not keen to repeat.

Having come to a decision, Fareeha puffs up and declares, “I’ve got a _wonderful_ hand. I’ll raise you two peanuts!”

Jesse fights a smile as she gingerly places said peanuts atop the tiny mountain of trail mix between them. They’re hunkered down in a corner of the rec room, sitting cross-legged around a rickety coffee table and sipping steaming mugs of Ana’s homemade _sahlab_. Ana herself is over in the kitchenette, humming softly as she helps Reinhardt and Lena clear away the dishes from their weekly dinner.

It had been Morrison’s turn to cook, so the meal had been—in his own words—“nothing too fancy,” just a tender, savory pot roast and lots and lots of corn. Not to mention the best goddamn apple pie Jesse’s ever tasted, which is why he can barely lift a finger now. That hadn’t stopped him from waddling back over for a third slice. Jesse’ll never admit it to Reyes—the man almost never approves of food unless it’s excruciatingly spicy—but Morrison’s hearty meals are his favorite.

“Well, I’ll be,” Jesse whistles, tipping his hat back and swiping at his brow in mock concern as he examines his own cards. “Them’s fightin’ words. I’ll raise ya my best raisin.”

Fareeha narrows her eyes at him and scowls. “One raisin isn’t worth two peanuts!”

Jesse points at the raisin in question, which looks fairly miserable. “You see that? That ain’t no ordinary raisin, sweetheart. Look how wrinkly it is. Gotta be somethin’ special ‘bout it.” Fareeha remains unconvinced. “Alright, alright. Tough customer.” Jesse concedes, adding a chocolate chip to the pile as well.

“McCree!” Jesse’s head snaps up at the call, and he glances around until he spots Reyes standing in the doorway. The alpha is dressed in his official Blackwatch uniform for once, clad in black body armor and skintight compression gear from the neck down. Both of his shotguns are holstered across his back, and the biotic canisters and spare magazines clipped to his belt clink softly as he steps into the room. His dark, metallic chest plate and boots gleam dully in the dying light. The red accent lights embedded into his armor are a perfect match for the sunset pouring through the panoramic window overlooking the base.

Reyes looks nothing at all the man who’d been poking at his dinner thirty minutes beforehand, sullenly muttering about needing to buy some more hot sauce. But Fareeha doesn’t bat an eye at Reyes’ intimidating appearance, beaming up at him with genuine excitement and waving him over. “Look! I’m winning!”

Winning? Jesse glances down. The pile of trail mix between them has diminished in size, and Fareeha’s own pile has grown suspiciously large. He chuckles. Guess she’d learned something from him, after all.

Reyes ruffles Fareeha’s hair, careful not to snag any of her beads or braids on his tactical gloves. “Good girl,” he praises her, smirking at Jesse. “Show him how it’s done.”

Jesse grins amicably. “What can I say? She’s a real shark. Did’ya need somethin’, Commander?”

“Yeah. Saddle up, cowboy. We leave at 1800.” Jesse rolls his eyes. Five months in, and the cowboy jokes keep on rolling. It probably doesn’t help that he’s kept the hat. And the bandana. And the boots. When Ana’s feeling charitable, she says that they add character to his Blackwatch uniform. Reyes just scoffs and grumbles that _they add something, alright_.

Then Reyes’ words register. Jesse’s jaw drops and he scrambles to his feet. “Wait, really—”  

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of these for you!” Fareeha interrupts him gleefully, snatching up the entire pile of trail mix before Jesse can so much as blink. Then she grabs one of his hands and squeezes it firmly between two of hers. She looks him square in the face and adds, rather fondly, “Be safe on your mission, okay? I’ll miss you!”

Dumbfounded, Jesse simply nods. A mission! After months of waiting—of sweating like a pig during training simulations and pestering Reyes and breaking every dead shot’s record at the shooting range—it’s finally time.

Reyes raises a brow at him. “You waiting for an invitation, _gamberro_?” he asks, impatiently gesturing for Jesse to hand him his mug. “ _¡Ándale!_ ”

Jesse quickly surrenders his empty mug, then collects Fareeha’s and hands that over as well. Reyes heads over to the kitchenette while Jesse crouches down to help Fareeha sweep the spoils of her victory back into the tin of trail mix. By the time they’ve hunted down the last few peanuts and stuffed the tin back into its dusty cupboard, their mugs have been washed, dried, and put away. The room feels empty, too quiet now that most of the team has disbanded to attend to their evening duties. Only Ana, Reyes, and Morrison remain.

Reyes leans against the countertop, trading banter with Morrison—Jack, Jesse reminds himself. The man isn’t one for formalities, and he’s repeatedly asked Jesse to call him by his first name when they’re off duty. Jack and Reyes are pressed close, hovering over the last slice of apple pie, eating it straight out of the pan. Their shoulders bump every time Jack reaches over for a forkful, but Reyes doesn’t seem to mind. Jack obviously favors the filling, stabbing at the apples with a sly little half-smile that suggests he thinks he’s being sneaky. Reyes wrinkles his nose and jostles Jack’s fork but lets him get away with it.

Jesse scowls, bitterly disappointed. He’d been hoping to come back to that slice. Reyes doesn’t even particularly _like_ apple pie. What a shame.

Jack catches sight of him and grins. “No need to pout, Jesse,” he teases. “I’ll make you another once you’re home.”

Caught, Jesse flushes. “Don’t mean to trouble ya,” he demurs, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“It’s no trouble,” Jack replies earnestly with a smile sweet enough to kill. Jeez. Jesse gets it now, all the whispers of “golden boy” chasing after Jack, clawing at his coattails and haunting his every footstep. He’d thought it was military bullshit at first, more propaganda being shoved down the throats of unsuspecting recruits. He’d outright stared the first time he met the Strike-Commander, unable to believe that he was face-to-face with the handsome blond from the ragged old Omnic Crisis posters. Jack’s almost too good to be true.

Jesse’s glad that Ana had knocked him around and kept him on his toes until he’d settled in. Otherwise he might have gone and done something stupid, like develop an inconvenient crush on his commanding officer’s… partner? Jesse doesn’t know exactly what Reyes and Jack are—and he’s neither brave enough nor dumb enough to ask—but he does know that they’re _something_.

Jack’s different around Reyes. Less perfect—feisty as hell and, frankly, a bit of a smartass. They squabble over the television remote and argue over how many habaneros Reyes is allowed to put in his _carne guisada_ and beat each other bloody in the arena. But afterwards, they always smile—Jesse’s seen it, and it never gets any less confusing. Maybe that’s normal in alpha-alpha relationships. Jesse’s pretty much given up all hope of understanding and has moved on to acceptance. Jack and Reyes are good together, and whatever it is they have going works for them—that’s all that matters.   

Jesse’s pulled out of his thoughts by a small hand tugging at his sleeve. Fareeha gazes up at him expectantly. “Won’t you say goodbye?”

“You betcha. Can’t leave without my best girl seein’ me off, now can I?” Jesse kneels down so she can throw her arms around him. The force of her hug knocks his hat off, and he laughs, squeezing her tight. “Wish me luck?”

“You’ll make your own,” Ana assures him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Jesse almost startles, but after five months, he’s started to get used to the way she ghosts in and out of his personal space. “Have a little faith in yourself.” Jesse wishes he felt half as confident as she sounds, but he nods anyway, unable to reply around the sudden lump in his throat. He’s always hated goodbyes.

“Here, Jesse!” He glances down to see Fareeha holding up his hat, offering it back to him.

He pauses. “Keep it safe for me, would ya?” he asks, voice wavering slightly before it holds steady.

Fareeha nods solemnly, cradling the hat to her chest. “I will,” she promises.

Jesse feels like an idiot for getting so worked up over a simple away mission. It makes him feel young and stupid, like he’s fifteen again and trembling with adrenaline, his palm slick around the grip of his revolver. Jesse’s killed before. He’ll inevitably kill again. It’s not something to be proud of; it’s just the way his world works. Kill, or be killed. Don’t hesitate. His hands are already drenched in blood. He has nothing to fear.

Jesse takes a deep breath and straightens. “Be good,” he murmurs to Fareeha. When he leaves the room, his smile is crooked, bittersweet.

Reyes follows him into the corridor. They head towards the barracks, their footsteps echoing loudly in silence that’s fallen between them. After a few minutes, Jesse cracks. “What sorta mission is it?”

“Recon,” Reyes answers shortly, running a hand through his hair. “There’ve been reports of a defunct omnium near Sochi. Overwatch can’t sanction an official investigation, so it falls to us. You’ll be briefed en route.”

A defunct omnium? Jesse furrows his brow. He’s never heard of such a thing. He’d thought that Overwatch had destroyed the last of the omniums after the war, but apparently not. Jesse idly wonders how dangerous the abandoned omnium still is, if Overwatch is unwilling to acknowledge its existence. He glances at Reyes out of the corner of his eye, takes in the way he’s missing his trademark hoodie and beanie, notices the tension coiled in his shoulders. Pretty dangerous, then. Jesse exhales softly. “Damn.”

“Here,” Reyes says abruptly, pressing a box into Jesse’s hands as they reach the door to his quarters.

“What is it?” The box is nondescript but surprisingly heavy. Jesse gives it a cautious shake, and its contents rattle. Jesse instantly recognizes the metallic sound—cartridges in a box of ammunition clinking together. He opens the box and stares down at the hundreds of golden cartridges, admiring the wicked blue glow they emit.

Ana had shown him something similar, the first time she’d accompanied him to the shooting range. They’d shot like a dream, smooth as silk, straight and true. The cartridges had still been under development then, military scientists working to perfect the biotic serum in the bullets. They’d eventually settled on using a potent neurotoxin, which had rendered the ammunition as expensive as it is lethal. Jesse wonders how the hell Reyes managed to get his hands on an entire brick of it.  

He opens his mouth to ask, but Reyes is already halfway down the hall, presumably off to gather the rest of the chosen Blackwatch operatives. “Thank me later,” Reyes shoots over his shoulder with a wry grin, “and get your ass moving. Transport’s up in thirty.”

“Thanks!” Jesse shouts anyway, just because he can. Reyes lazily raises a hand in acknowledgment before he disappears around the corner. Jesse ducks into his room, grinning wide enough that his cheeks ache.

His quarters look nothing like they did initially—the room has devolved into chaos, overtaken by mementos and the impromptu workspace Torbjörn had helped him set up. The engineer had taken one look at Jesse’s homemade flashbangs and muttered, “Not bad… could be better.” He’d whisked Jesse off to his workshop before Jesse’d even had the chance to get properly offended. They’d spent the afternoon squinting down at Jesse’s flashbangs together, tweaking the gunpowder ratio and possibly blowing up a thing or two in the process. It’d been the most fun Jesse’d had in ages.

The entire left half of Jesse’s room has been swallowed by his newfound interest in engineering. His desk is buried beneath an impenetrable mess of metal bits and bobs and various tools and blueprints he’s borrowed from Reinhardt and Torbjörn. The right half of his quarters is an explosion of color and distraction. His walls are plastered with sketches from Fareeha and postcards sent by Lena during her away missions—the ugliest ones she can find, which she then covers in doodles and her tiny, scribbly handwriting.

There’s an enormous box set of old western films perched on his bedside table, an early birthday present from Jack. Jesse’s pet cactus—courtesy of Ana, who had looked mighty smug about it—keeps the holovids company. Jesse’s taken to wearing her other gift, a leather belt with the gaudiest gold buckle he’s ever seen, if only to enjoy the way Reyes’ eye twitches whenever he sees it.

Jesse’s squirreled away the remainder of a case of heady German stout—Reinhardt’s way of celebrating Jesse’s twenty-first birthday—underneath his bed. He keeps his stash of fine cigarillos tucked out of sight beneath his mattress. Angela threatens to toss them straight out the window and down the mountain every time she catches him smoking one, despite the fact that she had bought them for him—a fact that Jesse has been ordered to keep secret or else suffer a very painful death.

He lights one up now as he packs. For all he knows, it might be his last smoke. The cigarillos are mellow, rich and smooth with a strong vanilla flavor and an undercurrent of spice. Jesse hums in appreciation, closing his eyes and flopping back onto his bed. It’s lumpy, covered in a haphazard assortment of clothes and armor and ammunition that he has yet to stuff into his duffle bag. He’ll finish up in a minute, he tells himself, as soon as he’s finished his cigarillo.

His knuckles graze soft fabric, and he smiles. Reyes’ gift is his favorite. He hadn’t been expecting anything from the alpha—not once Reinhardt had let it slip that Reyes had been the one to organize Jesse’s surprise party—but Reyes had given him something nonetheless. Not just something—a red and gold _serape_.

Jesse had been at a loss for words after unwrapping his present. He’d left more than just his family behind long ago. He sometimes wonders what became of the heirlooms he hadn’t taken with him—does his great-grandfather’s _serape_ still smell of smoke and his sandalwood cologne? Does his younger sister still use his grandmother’s burnished silver comb to work the tangles out of her hair? Had his mother kept the turquoise necklace Jesse’d gotten her for her fortieth birthday?

Jesse hasn’t forgotten his upbringing—he merely ignores it whenever it suits him, which had been more often than not in the Deadlock Gang. Jesse hadn’t ever expected to receive a _serape_ of his own after leaving home. He’d thought that he’d left that all behind when he joined Blackwatch. He knows better now. It’s the sort of thing that settles deep within your bones, inescapable.

“Never forget where you come from,” Reyes had said gruffly, clapping Jesse on the back as he stared down at his gift, squinting fiercely and sniffling none too subtly.

They hadn’t talked about it beyond that. The _serape_ rests in Jesse’s quarters for now, neatly folded, draped over the foot of his bed since it isn’t really compatible with his Blackwatch uniform. Jesse wears it every so often on the weekends he’s off duty, and wonders if he imagines the quirk of Reyes’ lips whenever he runs across Jesse wearing it.

Jesse briefly entertains the thought of showing up for his first black ops mission in a red and gold _serape_. He chuckles as he strips down to his skin and begins tugging on layers of dark-colored compression gear. The turtleneck and leggings are uncomfortably tight, but Reyes’ practical demonstration of their ability to resist bullets had managed to persuade Jesse to wear them anyway.

Jesse still hates the way the body armor makes him look—stiff and skinny, nothing at all like Reyes, who looks sleek and dangerous. Jesse pulls on a black flannel shirt and pants and his leather chaps over the compression gear just to make himself feel better. Spurs aren’t exactly stealthy, so he switches to his often-ignored pair of tactical boots. Jesse smirks as he slides Ana’s belt into place before draping spare ammunition belts across his hips and adjusting Peacekeeper’s holster. He fastens his chest plate snugly around his torso and promptly dons his bandana. He has a reputation to maintain, after all.

He shoves a change of clothes and the box of ammunition into his duffel bag, along with a case of flashbangs and, upon further consideration, the rest of his cigarillos. He’s gonna need them if he gets shot.

Straightening up, Jesse quickly scans his quarters, trying to think of anything he might have forgotten. Nothing comes to mind, so he shrugs, slings his bag over his shoulder, and turns to leave. He catches sight of himself in the small mirror he’d hung on the back of his door to help with shaving. Fareeha’s fleeting comment about his patchy facial hair had been incentive enough for him to keep a clean jawline ever since.

But it’s not stubble that catches his attention. It’s his own pleased smile. Jesse hadn’t realized he was smiling. It’s been happening more often lately, a grin rising unbidden to his lips as he goes about his day. Jesse likes it here. He feels stupid for not realizing it sooner—five months is mighty slow, after all—but it’s written plain as day on his face. His eyes are still too old and deep, but they’re a little less haunted now.

A sharp rap on the door startles him. “You done admiring yourself, _gamberro_?” Reyes drawls, and Jesse flushes.

“Someone’s gotta,” Jesse retorts, flinging open the door and shouldering past Reyes with his duffel. The other alpha looks amused by his posturing, and Jesse gets the feeling that Reyes knows exactly what he’d been up to. Jesse’s cheeks burn and he blurts, “You ready or what?”

“Always,” Reyes replies. “ _Vámonos_.”

* * *

Jesse’s never liked flying. He grits his teeth as the transport rises slowly into the air and snarls expletives under his breath as they jet out of the spaceport. He breathes shallowly and keeps his head low for the first few minutes, less than eager to catch a glimpse of the world blurring around them.

It’s not so bad once they’re high enough. It’s dark out, and the sky is a striking shade of blackish-blue that reminds Jesse of the desert at midnight. With a bit of imagination, he can even pretend that the clouds lazily wandering past are just especially fluffy tumbleweeds.

Jesse’s heartrate gradually slows, and the roar of blood in his ears dies down enough for him to realize that Reyes is speaking to someone over his comm. Jesse would sooner die than admit it, but he finds the other alpha’s voice soothing. Reyes is always confident, always in control. Jesse shuts his eyes and focuses on the sound of Reyes’ voice, listening to him calmly discuss tactics and provide a brief status report.

“—yeah, McCree,” Reyes says, and Jesse perks up at his name. “Kid’s not keen on flying. Wish he would’ve said something sooner, Jack. Thought he was gonna hurl, but he kept it down.” Jesse wants to protest at that, really he does, but a wave of nausea overtakes him when he shifts in his seat. He immediately leans back and holds himself perfectly still, waiting for the goddamn aircraft to stop spinning around him.

When he refocuses, Reyes has gone quiet. Jesse cracks an eye open and peeks at him. He looks… _soft_ is the only word that comes to mind. Reyes is smiling down at his communicator, the upward twist of his lips small but fond. “ _Si, tendré cuidado_ ,” he murmurs. “ _No te preocupes, cariño_.” The reply makes him laugh, gentle and low. “Yeah, yeah. _Te extrañaré_.”

Jesse closes his eyes again and feigns sleep, not minding in the slightest that his contented smile probably gives him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRANSLATIONS:** (Please, please correct me if you spot something wrong. Google translate can only do so much!)
> 
>  _Sahlab_ is a hot, sweet vanilla drink popular in the Middle East. _Gamberro_ is "punk." _Ándale_ means "hurry up" in this context. _Carne guisada_ is a Mexican dish: beef stewed in savory spices, which is then typically served with rice and beans or tortillas. Anyone familiar with McCree probably already knows what a _serape_ is—a large, woven shawl which is often brightly-colored and worn by men in Mexico. _Vámonos_ means "let's go." 
> 
> Gabriel's conversation with Jack should hopefully read as such: “Yeah, I’ll be careful. Don’t worry, sweetheart. Yeah, yeah. I’ll miss you.” 
> 
> \---
> 
> I can never decide whether I enjoy oblivious Jack or fluent Jack more. Fluent Jack won this time. He entered the SEP with a rudimentary grasp of Spanish, and his knowledge of the language has significantly improved ever since he became close with Gabriel. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, please know that any comments or critique you take the time to leave are greatly appreciated. Visit my tumblr (elynias.tumblr.com) for updates and drabbles, or just stop by to say hello.


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